Murdoch and the Biographer
by Argonaut57
Summary: A particularly selective serial killer is preying on women in Toronto. Detective Murdoch is faced with one of the toughest challenges of his career. He knows how, but not why, and needs to find out who. A common street brawl merits little attention, then, except that it introduces Murdoch to the enigmatic Logan.
1. Chapter 1

**The Biographer**

**One: A Body and a Brawl**

"What have we, George?" Detective Murdoch asked briskly.

Constable Crabtree, despite his youthful looks, was no longer naïve or inexperienced, but his normally cheerful face was a little paler than usual, and grimly set.

"It's another one, sir, like the last three. The local constable found it on his morning beat and guessed what it was. I took the liberty of sending for Dr Grace, sir, and she's already here."

Murdoch nodded his approval. "Good work, George. Have you examined the scene?"

Crabtree nodded. "As best I could, sir. But as you can see, there's not much hope of finding any clean traces."

Murdoch glanced around. The street they were on was close to Torontos' bustling docks, people and vehicles began passing here in the early morning and did not stop until late in the evening. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate any tracks even if the street had not been cobbled.

"Wrapped in a blanket?" Murdoch asked, and when George nodded he continued, half to himself. "Left in a public area, easy to find."

That was unusual, most killers at least tried to conceal their victims' bodies. Murdoch had seen them buried, shallow or deep, thrown into lakes or pools, in all states of dismemberment, burned or dissolved in acid. It was far from common to leave bodies to be found. But then it was far from common for four women to be killed the same way in two months.

Murdoch approached the body. He noted that it was still mostly wrapped in the blanket and was thankful for the restraint of the constable who found it. Bad enough that passers by were seeing the Constabulary gathered round what could only be a body. If it became known that the body was that of a naked woman, there would be a near-riot! As it was, most people passing were too busy to do more than glance, and the few loafers who did gather were sent briskly about their business by George and two other constables.

The body had been placed in a doorway. Not so concealed as to be hard to find, but not so open as to be found too soon. The plate on the door declared that the office behind it would not open for at least another hour. Murdoch was thankful for the sharp-eyed beat constable who had spotted the blanket-wrapped bundle and guessed what it was. A curious clerk or officious manager would undoubtedly have disturbed the body and perhaps lost vital clues.

Murdoch leaned over to see that the face, at least, had been exposed. He crossed himself, then said quietly. "Dr Grace?"

Dr Grace looked up from the corpse, her pretty, piquant features intense with concentration. Murdoch knew that many of his fellow detectives disapproved of his custom of asking the coroner to examine bodies _in situ_. So did many coroners, who were at best reluctant to leave the morgue. Fortunately, Emily Grace was cut from the same sturdy cloth as her predecessor, Dr Ogden.

"Detective Murdoch." She acknowledged. "I've confirmed that the victim is in fact dead, but beyond that, and the fact that she is a woman of about thirty, nothing else. If it is possible, I would like the body to be transferred to the morgue as it is for further examination. If I am able to unwrap her in a clean and controlled environment, I may be able to find evidence in the blanket itself."

"An excellent idea, Dr Grace." Murdoch commended. "Is there nothing else you can tell me now?"

She frowned slightly. "I would say that she's been here perhaps two hours. It rained around four o'clock this morning, I remember waking and hearing it on my window, and your constable confirmed it. You will note that the bottom end of the blanket, where it protruded into the street, is quite wet, whereas the majority of it, which was sheltered in this porch, is dry.

"I can infer, therefore, that she was placed here some time before four in the morning."

"But not killed here?" Murdoch asked.

"Impossible to say just yet." Dr Grace was cautious. "But if she's like the others, then no."

"You think it is the same killer?" Murdoch wanted to be sure.

"Well, obviously, I'll need to establish cause of death, and see the state of the body in full." Dr Grace replied carefully. "But so far, it does fit the pattern."

Murdoch made arrangements to have the corpse transported, and tried to take a look around the scene. Unfortunately, by now the daily business of Toronto was well started, and there was a great deal of traffic. Had the body been discovered earlier, it might have been possible, if awkward, to block off the road for a time, but it was now far too late. He was about to give it up when Inspector Brackenreid arrived.

"Another one, Murdoch?" The Inspector asked without preamble. "That's what, four now? And no closer to catching the bugger, eh? We're bloody lucky the papers haven't got wind of this, or we'd be right in it, me old mucker!"

"We have been fortunate." Murdoch allowed. "The bodies so far have been easily found, but all either early in the morning or late at night, so that a crowd wasn't drawn. Also, the places where they were found are quite distant from each other, so that only we have made the connection between them."

"Beats me why he's leaving them where they can be found!" Brackenreid shook his head. "Showing off his handiwork, maybe?"

"I don't believe so, sir." Murdoch told him. "If that were the case, he would surely leave them in more public places, and not wrap them so carefully. No, I believe that this may be a sign of remorse."

"Remorse?" The Inspector spluttered. "Are you telling me that a man who can do that to a woman has a shred of remorse in him, Murdoch?"

"It is difficult to believe, I know." Murdoch agreed. "But there have been other cases where the most savage of killers has shown remarkable care and respect in handling his victims after death."

Brackenreid shook his head dolefully. "I don't know, Murdoch. Either our murderer is completely off his bloody rocker, or you are!"

Constable Crabtree approached them at this point. "Sirs, if I may?" He asked. "I've been speaking to some of the people around here, and they told me that it's impossible to turn any kind of carriage or wagon around in this street. In order to get out of the docks area, you have to drive on through here, turn left and then left again further up. Our killer will have had to do that when dropping the body."

"Or come round the other way." Murdoch said. "Either way, there will be no chance of finding any tracks now, George."

"I know, sir." Crabtree assured him. "But I'm told that several of the places of business along the docks work through the night, while others have night-watchmen. Someone may have seen something."

"Good work, Crabtree!" Brackenreid said. "Come on, Murdoch! While we're here, we might as well ask a few people."

"Well, sir, I should really be getting back to the station..." Murdoch began, but Brackenreid cut him off.

"Nonsense, Murdoch!" He said heartily, but not without a certain sly humour. "A bit of honest legwork'll do you good. Remind you of what being a copper is really about!"

The three officers proceeded about half-way along the section of busy warehouses and ships' chandlers, and gathered the addresses of two night-watchmen who had been on duty at the time. They'd also been told that at least one of the warehouses stayed open all night, but that the night-shift had all gone home.

"We'll talk to them tonight." Brackenreid decided. "Likely as not they'll have been too busy to see anything, and you don't drag a working man out of his bed without a bloody good reason! The watchmen are a better bet."

He did not add that the public houses in the area were usually open in the small hours, and that night-shift workers often stopped and refreshed themselves on the way home, making waking them at best a dubious proposition. Watchmen, if they were any good at their job, tended to greater sobriety of habits.

Just then, a man came out of one of the warehouses, carrying a bundle of goods. Murdoch noticed him because, unlike most of the big, muscular, rawboned men who worked the docks, this man was short, barely more than five feet. Nevertheless, he had considerable breadth of shoulder and carried the heavy bundle with apparent ease. The docker set the bundle down carefully with a pile of others waiting to be hoisted aboard a nearby vessel, then stepped back for a moment to check his handiwork.

There was a sudden yell of "LOGAN!", and another docker appeared from nowhere. A giant of a man with a face full of rage, running fiercely at the small man. There was the flash of a blade, a spurt of red, then the short man struck his attacker, a powerful blow that sent the larger man to the ground.

The three policemen were already in motion. Murdoch rushed to the injured man while Brackenreid and Crabtree went for the downed attacker. The docker stood a clear six and a half feet tall and was built on heroic lines. He was already struggling to his feet, brandishing an ugly-looking knife. But the active young constable and the burly, veteran Yorkshireman were both old hands at this game. The docker was disarmed, pinned down and cuffed before he fully realised what was going on.

Murdoch grabbed the other man by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" He asked.

"Fine." The man replied in a gravelly, whisky-roughened voice. The eyes that met Murdochs' were dark and frighteningly intense. "Just a scratch."

But he made no protest as Murdoch replied. "I'd better have a look," and pulled up the bloodied shirt.

It was fortunate that the man had turned quickly at his attackers' shout. What had been meant to be a stab to the gut had instead resulted in a long, deep slash along the side. Murdoch noted that the bleeding had already begun to slow, but the wound was still an ugly one.

"I think we had best get you to a hospital." He said. "That wound will require several stitches at the very least. Your name is Logan?"

"Jim Logan." The docker replied. "I don't need a hospital, just a bandage and a chance to lie down for a bit."

"Well, I've a bandage here, and you'll be doing your lying down in the hospital, Jimmy."

This was a new voice, a pleasant tenor with a musical Irish lilt. Murdoch turned to see another man standing nearby, with a length of pristine white cloth in his hands. He was almost as big as the man who had attacked Logan, had a mass of fiery red hair, a pleasantly ugly face and was wearing a white shirt, dark trousers and waistcoat, with a heavy brass watch-chain across it.

"And you would be?" Murdoch asked.

"Liam Finnegan." The man answered. "I'm the manager of this warehouse. Jimmy here is one of my best fellers, and I'm not wanting to lose him, so let's be binding him up. I'll take him to the hospital in one of the carts meself."

Logan clearly saw no point in demurring further, so he stood passively as Murdoch assisted Finnegan to deftly bind the slash.

"You have some expertise in this, I see, Mr Finnegan."

"That I have." The manager allowed. "Workin' around here isn't safe. All kinds of accidents happen from knocks on the shins to broken necks. There's some as will just kick a man off the docks if he's hurt, leave him to make his own way. Me, if a man's hurt doin' work I've given him, I think I've a duty to see him looked after proper."

"Very commendable." Murdoch approved. "By the way, I am Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary, and this is Inspector Brackenreid. Inspector, Mr Finnegan here is the manager of this establishment."

"Right." Brackenreid said. "We've got the other one cuffed, what d'you want us to do with him?"

"I don't want to press..." Logan began, but Finnegan cut him off.

"Well I do, Jimmy." He said firmly. "Take the spalpeen away and lock him up, Inspector. It's enough of his drinkin' and his foul temper I've had. I'll be after gettin' Jimmy patched up and then we'll be down to the station to make statements, so we will. Which station house?"

"Number Four." Brackenreid told him.

Back at the station house, Murdoch faced a difficult interview. Henri Martineau was the brother of the second victim, Justine Martineau, who had lived in Toronto under the name Justine Martin for some five years before her untimely death. He had identified her body and now sat in Murdochs' office in an attitude of resignation rather than sorrow. Murdoch had always disliked the necessity of interviewing the deceaseds' loved ones, but it came with the job, so he steeled himself as he took stock of his visitor.

Martineau was a native of Montreal, and his appearance betrayed his Gallic ancestry, with his neat moustache, sober but elegant clothing, pale skin and sleek dark hair. He was about the middle height, and rather plump, with a round face more suited to laughter than his current mood.

"M Martineau, my condolences for your loss. I am Detective William Murdoch, and I am investigating the circumstances of your sisters' death. Thank you for coming all the way from Montreal to help us."

"Anything I can do, of course, M Murdoch." Martineau replied. "But beyond identifying my poor sister's corpse, I cannot see 'ow I can 'elp. It has been five years since we 'ave 'eard from poor Justine. I still do not know 'ow you managed to find us, though you 'ave my thanks for doing so."

"As to that," Murdoch told him, "we found evidence in your sisters' lodgings indicating she had once lived in Montreal. We telegraphed the local police with a description, and they identified your sister as a woman reported missing there five years ago.

"We were surprised that the file still existed, but I gather your family is a highly-regarded one and that a considerable reward was offered for information."

Martineau gave a short, bitter laugh. "'Ighly-regarded indeed!" He said. "And by none more than my parents!

"M Murdoch, you are, as they say, a man of the world, no? You 'ave seen much, this I can tell by your eyes. Do you know what 'arm the obsession with status, appearance, respectability can do to a family?"

"I have seen such things." Murdoch noted. "I take it that your sister quarrelled with your parents?"

"Quarrelled?" Martineau threw up his hands. "_Ma foi_! If it were only quarrels, M Murdoch! Quarrels all families 'ave, but this, this was _la guerre_!

"Papa is a director in one of Montreals' biggest banks, and an owner of factories. His father, G_rand-pere_ Louis, was but a humble shopkeeper. So Papa is ever most conscious of his position in society, to appear always most grave and respectable. Maman is a woman most pious, dividing her time between Church and good works.

"For me, then, it was business that I must enter. This was not difficult, as I 'ave the 'ead for figures, and if I am less grave than Papa, more given to a jest or a smile, this 'as done me no 'arm.

"My parents wished Justine to marry well, according to their choice, and to do as Maman does, the Church and the charities. But Justine 'ad a spark, a fire in her 'eart and mind. She wished to learn, to study, to go to college. The duties of a wife, the pastimes of a pious woman, these were not enough for 'er.

"She ceased to attend church. She kept company with thinkers, philosophers, artists and men and women of science. People my parents considered immoral and of a different order from us. There were many quarrels and much bitterness. The day after 'er twenty-first birthday, Justine left 'ome in the middle of the night. We 'ave not seen 'er since.

"My parents never spoke of 'er again, they treated 'er as one dead to them. I reported the matter to the police. I did not wish to bring Justine 'ome, merely to know that she was well. But _rien_ until your letter. It was a blow, but not one entirely unexpected.

"Can you tell me what it was she occupied 'erself with in Toronto?"

Murdoch nodded. "From what we can tell, she worked in a shop for some three years whilst attending classes at a number of different establishments. For the last two years, however, she was a private tutor to well-off and progressive families who wished their daughters to have a somewhat different education from that normally given to girls. She tutored these young women in the basics of the sciences and philosophy, mainly, and was highly-regarded by her employers. It was one of them who reported her missing.

"She does not appear to have had any romantic relationships at any time, though she had several male friends. Outside of her work, she was a member of the Toronto Society of Atheists, the Toronto Ladies' Scientific Guild and the Philosophical Reading Club. She was also – and this is the only time she came under police notice – a campaigner for birth control. She was not arrested, but her name was taken and she was moved on."

Martineau gave a small, sad smile. "Ah, Justine!" He sighed. "Ever contrary! Is it possible, M Murdoch, that any of these activities led to 'er death?"

"We are considering that, along with other lines of investigation." Murdoch told him. "You will understand that I cannot discuss the matter any further here and now."

There were a few more formalities, then Martineau left. Shortly after, Brackenreid came into the office.

"This is a bad business, Murdoch." He said grimly. "I've just been with the Commissioner, and at least he's agreed we have to keep it out of the Press for now. We don't want a panic, or a station full of nutters confessing to things they've not done!

"Doesn't Dr Ogden have some sort of idea about this kind of killer?"

Murdoch nodded. "She once theorised that there were men driven to kill at intervals, in a specific, often ritualistic manner, due to some kind of obsession. She called them 'sequential killers'. The alienist Dr Roberts agreed that there was some merit in the idea."

"Perhaps you ought to call her in on this one." Brackenreid suggested.

"Sir?" Murdoch was surprised. "You are aware of my relationship with Julia."

"I know you're courting." Brackenreid said. "But I also know that you two, along with young Crabtree and Dr Grace, are the best team in this or any station in Toronto. Get her in here, Murdoch! We need every brain we can get on this one." He clapped Murdoch on the shoulder. "Just keep the canoodling to a minimum, mate!"

Murdoch was about to protest, when Crabtree came into the room.

"Sirs," he said eagerly, "I believe I have identified our latest victim!"

"That was bloody quick work!" Brackenreid said. "You suddenly got psychic, Crabtree? Did her ghost tell you?"

"No, sir." Crabtree responded seriously. "That would require a séance. But the victims' face was familiar to me, and I checked back on some other cases. Do you remember the Ishtar Club?"

"You mean the knocking shop we raided last month?" Brackenreid asked. "The one where they showed those mucky moving pictures and had all those dirty photographs?"

"Yes, sir." Crabtree produced a photograph. "I went through the evidence and found several photographs of a lady I believe to be our victim, sir."

Murdoch and Brackenreid examined the picture. It showed a woman reclining, quite naked, on a chaise-longue against the background of a respectable drawing room. The face was definitely that of the dead woman from that morning.

"That's her all right!" Brackenreid said. "Any idea of her name, Crabtree?"

"Not yet, sir." Crabtree told him. "But the name of the photographic studio is printed on the back of the picture. We were planning to raid the premises but this new case took up all our resources before we could. It's likely that the photographer will have records of his models, sir."

"Then follow it up, Crabtree, follow it up!" Brackenreid ordered. "Promise the pervert anything, as long as he gives us her name, and preferably her address!"

Crabtree left, and Brackenreid examined the picture again.

"He's a sharp lad, that Crabtree, just don't tell him I said so!" He shook his head. "If I'd seen this picture before, it wouldn't be her _face_ I'd remember!"


	2. Chapter 2

**The Biographer**

**Two: An Unusual Young Man**

The body lay face-down on the autopsy table, which was unusual, but served to display the common feature of all the related killings. The entire skin of the back, from just above the shoulder-blades to the base of the spine, had been removed. As Murdoch entered, he saw that Drs Grace and Ogden where in discussion over the body.

"Good morning, Julia." He announced himself. "Thank you for agreeing to come."

Dr Julia Ogden, a smile lighting her face, put out both hands to him. "Thank you for asking me, William!" She replied. They kissed lightly, then Julia went on. "I am surprised, though. Much as I enjoy working with you William, I am no longer employed by the Constabulary."

"Inspector Brackenreid asked me to call you in as a consultant on this case." Murdoch explained. "Not only are you an experienced coroner, used to police work, but you are a psychiatrist with experience of these sequential killers. We both feel your help would be invaluable."

"I am flattered," Julia noted, "and of course I will help as much as I can. Emily has already explained to me that this body is in the same condition as three others that have been found."

"Indeed!" Murdoch said. "So that is the gist of your findings, Dr Grace?"

Dr Grace had discreetly turned back to the table during their greeting, but now she faced Murdoch.

"Yes, Detective." She said. "This woman appears to be between twenty-nine and thirty-two years of age. She was well-nourished and healthy at the time of death. She is also _virgo intacta_, though this may not be significant, as two of the four victims have been sexually experienced. The skin of the back was removed _post-mortem_, in a single piece.

"As you know, I called in a professional animal-skinner on the last case who confirmed that this had been done. He also told me that human skin is very thin and delicate by comparison with animal hides, and that the operation would have taken a great deal of skill and patience."

"Cause of death?" Murdoch asked.

"The same as the other three." Dr Grace confirmed. "A combination of strangulation and crushing of the neck vertebrae and spinal chord. And I think, Detective, I have discovered how it was done!"

Dr Grace went over to her desk and picked up a book that lay open there. She showed them a photographic plate. The device displayed was a kind of chair, with no arms, a wooden seat and back. From the relatively low back of the chair, a long, sturdy metal pole extended to a height of about six feet. Attached to this pole, apparently with a moveable clamp, was an apparatus consisting of a narrow metal ring, parallel to the chair seat and set above it, and a crank or handle which protruded behind the chair.

"This is a garrotting chair." Dr Grace told them. "It is a method of execution favoured in Spain and Spanish colonies. Historically, criminals in Spain have been strangled, originally with knotted cords or rope. This method was introduced in the last century as being more efficient. The victim is seated in the chair, shackled and restrained by a leather harness. The metal loop is lowered over the head and down to the neck, then tightened by means of the crank. Look here..."

On the opposite page were two diagrams of the loop apparatus. One showed a blunt metal rod on the inside back of the loop, another a knife-blade in the same position.

"The addition of a rod or blade is a recent one." Dr Grace continued. "Designed to either crush or sever the spinal nerve, paralysing the victim and supposedly making death quicker and more humane."

"Can any execution be humane?" Julia wondered.

Murdoch shrugged. "That is a question that is intensely debated, Julia." He remarked. "In former times, execution was meant to be cruel and painful, as part of the punishment. It was with the introduction of the guillotine in the French Revolution that the movement toward less painful methods began."

"That's correct." Dr Grace commented. "Though I have read of experiments conducted by French physicians who claim that the severed head can live for several seconds after the cut has taken place. Some American states have recently adopted the electrical chair as a method of execution, rather than hanging. A Dr Bleyer, in New York proposed execution by the injection of lethal drugs some years ago, but it was not taken up. Few doctors, I feel, would be comfortable with performing such a procedure. It is a direct violation of the Hippocratic Oath."

"Interesting as this discussion is," Murdoch said firmly, "it might be better for a later time. Have you anything else, Dr Grace?"

"Yes indeed." She replied. "The victim had eaten some five or six hours prior to her death, according to the state of her stomach contents. Ham sandwiches and tea. The best estimate for time of death would be between nine and ten yesterday evening."

"Allowing time for the skinning to take place and for her to be transported to where she was found." Murdoch noted.

Dr Grace nodded. "In common with the other victims, the remaining skin smells quite strongly of violets. They are used as a scenting ingredient in many high-priced lotions and creams designed to soften and smooth the skin. Interestingly, though most women only apply such creams to face, hands, arms and other parts which might be seen in, for instance, a ball-dress, our victims seem to have applied it, or have had it applied, over their entire bodies."

"So, whoever the killer is," Julia theorised, "he wants their skin in the best possible condition before he removes part of it. I wonder what use he makes of it? The skin of the back is hardly intimate or personal enough to make a souvenir, surely?"

"An answer to that question would make the case far easier." Murdoch allowed. "Is that everything, Dr Grace?"

"For now." She told him. "I have yet to begin work on the blanket she was found in. I will let you know if anything comes of that."

"Thank you, Doctor." Murdoch said. "Now, Julia, we should go to the station, where you can familiarise yourself with the other cases."

Mr Theodore Snelgrove was indignant. "This is not an obscene photograph, Constable!" He told Crabtree firmly. "It is a legitimate erotic study. The naked human body is a beauty to be celebrated, not hidden away. In Europe, such things are understood, it is only the small-minded provincialism of Canada that persecutes artists!"

"And yet, Mr Snelgrove, this photograph, and others like it from your studio, were confiscated by us as part of a raid on a brothel." Crabtree replied.

Snelgrove gave a sigh of exasperation. "Mr Crabtree, when I sold those photographs to the secretary of the Ishtar Club, I was given to understand that the club was a legitimate meeting place for gentlemen of artistic leanings. I assure you, that had I known the place to be a disorderly house, I would have declined to do business with them.

"Snelgrove and Son Photographic Studio was established by my father twenty years ago. We produce wedding and other family portraits, school and sports team photographs, and do a great deal of ordinary business.

"But we are also interested in photography as an art and a science. So yes, we produce nude and erotic studies of both men and women. We make photographic plates of dissections for anatomy textbooks. We produce landscape and geological studies. We even make photographic copies, with live models, of famous paintings.

"This young lady, Arlena, she calls herself, was the model for our version of Botticellis' _Birth of Venus!"_

"So you do know the woman?" Crabtree asked.

"Oh, indeed, yes!" Snelgrove said. "She and her friend Olivia are two of our regular models, both nude and clothed. Was it actually Arlena you came to ask about, Constable?"

"Yes." Crabtree asserted. "I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, that Miss Arlena was found dead this morning near the docks. So any information you may have will be of considerable help to the Constabulary."

Snelgrove appeared, Crabtree noted, to be genuinely surprised and upset at this news. Noting that Arlena had been a lovely woman and a hard-working model, he immediately bustled off to find his ledgers.

Arlenas' landlady, Mrs Anderson, was an attractive and well-dressed woman in her forties. The "Boarding-house for Young Single Ladies" she ran was in fact a large and elegantly-furnished suburban villa, set back in its own well-kept gardens. Mrs Anderson had been deeply shocked and upset by Crabtrees' news, but had rallied like a true lady and was now seated opposite him in a sunny sitting-room, pouring tea that had been brought by another lodger, a dark-haired girl in her twenties who had sent Crabtree a look of sullen suspicion.

"What about Olivia?" She asked anxiously.

"I was hoping you could direct me to her." Crabtree said. "As Miss Arlenas' close friend, she might have information that could help us."

Mrs Anderson shook her head and her worried expression deepened. "You don't understand, Constable. Arlena and Olivia were inseparable. They went everywhere, did everything, together. If Arlena is dead, then I can only be desperately afraid for Olivia."

She paused for a moment, looking at Crabtree shrewdly. "You strike me as an observant and intelligent young man, Constable. Surely you have guessed what I do here?"

Things fell into place. "You provide a place of safety." Crabtree said.

She nodded. "Indeed. The law does not pursue or punish these women as it does their unfortunate male counterparts, Constable. Society, however, does not approve their tastes, and considers them mentally ill. Within these walls, they are free to be themselves" She gave him another piercing look. "I sense no disapproval from you."

Crabtree shrugged. "I was a foundling, ma'am. I was raised, kindly and lovingly, by women I called my aunts. Women who made their living, still do, in a manner society and the law disapprove of. I learned very young not to make judgements about people."

"And yet you are a police officer." She said.

He shrugged again. "it was a job, at the time. I have come to understand that our role is to help and protect. Judgement lies with the courts and juries.

"Now, when did you last see the two ladies?"

"A week and a half ago." She told him. "In addition to this house, I own a cabin on one of the islands in the lake. If any of my ladies require a vacation, somewhere private, I allow them to use it. Arlena and Olivia were taking a two week break there, which is why I did not report them missing, Constable."

Murdoch and Julia had gone through the files and were now sitting in his office.

"I know you and your methods well enough, William, to have reached most of the same conclusions you will have." Julia was saying. "The killer is almost certainly male, in good health and physically robust – it is no easy matter to carry a dead body, even that of a slightly-built woman."

Murdoch nodded. "He obviously has a large premises, with room to work and to keep his victims. Probably isolated enough so that his comings and goings will not be noticed."

"He keeps his victims alive for some time." Julia noted. "But not, apparently, for sexual purposes or torture. On the contrary, he appears to look after them fairly well. Which indicates that he has both ample means and time. He may in fact be a wealthy man with no need to work."

"Precisely the same thoughts as I had, Julia. But I do not have your psychological insight. Is there anything you can add?" Murdoch leaned forward.

Julia considered. "The notion of sequential killers is a very new one, William. As well as the famous Jack the Ripper cases in London, I have read of a Dr Thomas Neill Cream. He was a Scottish-Canadian who certainly killed five people by poisoning between 1881 and 1892, and claimed to have killed many more: he was hanged in London in 1892. Dr Henry Howard Holmes is known to have killed at least nine people, though he actually confessed to 27 murders. Burke and Hare, as you may know, killed sixteen people in Edinburgh in the 1820s. Of course there was the 13th Century French nobleman, Gilles de Rais. or Bluebeard, who was accused of the murder of hundreds of women in grotesque sexual rituals.

"Now, many of these killers claimed profit as the motive for their actions, but some psychiatrists, including myself, suspect there are other forces at work. It is noticeable that while some robbers do tend to kill their victims, their methods of doing so vary. It depends on the weapons available or the circumstances of the killing. But these sequential killers seem to always use the same method, often a needlessly elaborate one. As if they gain a specific satisfaction from the process, rather than the outcome."

"Does this killers' process tell you anything about him, Julia?" Murdoch, as usual, was fascinated by any new thinking. It often occurred to Julia that his scientific curiosity was part of a need to understand, not just crime and criminals, but the whole human condition.

"Well, obviously, William, I cannot say anything definitive." She said slowly. "But the method of killing indicates to me that, firstly,the killer wishes to avoid damage to the body, and the skin in particular. I don't think it's squeamishness on his part, given the skinning. Death by this garrotting device would be relatively quick, of course. But it is also less personal than, say, manual strangling.

"It seems to me – and this is just speculation, William – that the killing is actually simply a part of a larger process which begins with captivity but may not end with the killing and skinning.

"One thing which I am sure you will have noticed, William, is that all these women have led unusual lives. Lives which are far from the ordinary women around them. One was a campaigner for the education of women, for instance. Another was a woman who had killed her husband..."

"I don't think that's quite fair, Julia." Murdoch pointed out. "The husband was a drunken brute who had systematically beaten her for years. On the night in question, she snatched up a knife to try and protect herself – something which had cowed her husband on previous occasions – and he literally ran onto the blade. The verdict was accidental death."

"That's true, William, I remember the case as you do." She replied. "But afterwards, the woman went on to vociferously campaign for the rights of women to be protected against violent husbands, an issue on which the law remains less than clear."

Just then, Crabtree returned with the information he'd gathered on Arlena, and the news that another young woman might well be missing. Brackenreid was immediately informed, and matters became urgent. However, it was not until early the next morning that anything was found.

The house was practically a mansion, Murdoch noted, as he and Julia got down from the cab.

"If I am going to be assisting you on a regular basis, William – and I really hope I shall be – then I must obtain a bicycle!" Julia remarked. "You would have been here much faster on your machine, and I'm told the art is not difficult to master." Julia remarked.

"I understand there are a growing number of lady cyclists in Toronto." Murdoch conceded, then got down to business. "The body in in the stables behind the main house."

This time it was Julia who asked, "What have we, George?" Both Crabtree and Dr Grace grinned, and even Murdoch managed a wry smile at his own predictability. But then matters became serious.

"The body was found by this young man as he was coming out for his morning ride." George said. "It had been propped in the stable doorway."

"The same as the others?" Julia asked, crouching beside Dr Grace.

"So it would appear." Dr Grace said. "I don't wish to uncover more than the face at this point, not until I'm back at the morgue. But George – Constable Crabtree – has identified her as the missing young woman."

"What about the grooms?" Murdioch asked Crabtree, but it was the head of the family who answered.

"We don't employ them." He said, stepping forward. "My son and I care for our own horses, it's an important part of the relationship. We have a lad who comes in to muck out, but he's not due yet."

"I see, sir, and you are the owner of the house?" Murdoch asked.

The man shook his head. "No, the house belongs to some family friends who are currently in Europe on a tour. They've kindly allowed us to stay here for a few months." He put out his hand. "My name's John Howlett, and you are?"

Murdoch grasped the hand, noting that it was the calloused hand of a working man, rather than the soft touch of a gentleman. "Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary. This is Dr Julia Ogden, who is assisting on the case. It was your son who discovered the body?"

Howlett nodded. "That's right. James is an habitual early riser, Detective, unlike so many young men of his age. He came out here for an early morning ride, and...Well, I'll let him tell you himself.

"James, Detective Murdoch wants to talk to you, son."

The young man stepped forward. Murdoch judged he was around fourteen or fifteen. Not tall, but stocky and powerfully-built, with thick dark hair. He shook hands firmly with Murdoch, who noted that the boys' hands were as hardened as his fathers', and actually larger than Murdochs' own. He met the lads' eyes, finding them dark and intense, in a rather blunt-featured face. Something about the intensity of James' gaze was familiar, but Murdoch couldn't place it.

In answer to Murdochs' question, he replied in an even, soft voice that showed evidence of education, and of having already changed – there was none of the crack and waver that often afflicts teenage boys at that age.

"I don't really have much to tell, Detective. I came out here for my ride – the park nearby is quiet in the mornings and Toronto is noisier than home, so I appreciate a little peace. I saw the bundle by the door and knew it didn't belong there. I didn't touch it, but I sensed something wasn't quite right, so I went back to the house to tell Father, and he summoned the police.

"When can I get into the stable to look after Thunderbolt?"

"As soon as we remove the body." Murdoch told him. "Thank you for your help, Mr Howlett. I am impressed by your quick thinking."

The boy grinned. "I wish my schoolmasters would say the same!"

Murdoch smiled, then turned to the elder Howlett.

"Can the grounds be accessed during the night?" He asked.

Howlett nodded. "The house, stables and outbuildings are all locked at night, but the gates from the road at the back are left open. The Sorensons, who own the house, are not early risers like us, and the groundskeepers and gardeners live out. They come in by that gate, as do the tradesmen."

"I see." Murdoch said. "Can I ask what you and your family are doing in Toronto, Mr Howlett?"

"Oh, no mystery about that, Detective!" Howlett said genially. "I'm a farmer, got a big spread out in Alberta. We've done pretty well for ourselves, well enough to get James the schooling I never had, though I make sure he puts in his share of work at home as well!

"Anyhow, we've been doing a lot of business here in Toronto over the last couple of years, all through our lawyers. When the Sorensons wrote and said they were going to Europe and were looking to let the house for the season, I jumped at the chance. I like to look over my business myself, and meet the people I'm dealing with.

"Of course, it's also a chance for Elizabeth to do a little shopping, and visit the museums, galleries and theatres. She's a country girl, but she does have a hankering for that kind of thing, and it's good to let James see some of the things he's read about in school. Me, I just like to see some of the new inventions. There's things being thought up that'll make running the farm a lot easier."

"Very well." Murdoch said gravely. "I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt your itinerary today, Mr Howlett. I'll need you and James to come over to Station House Four later on to make formal statements."

Howlett allowed that would cause no difficulties, and that he would see Murdoch later. The Coroners' van had arrived and the body was loaded. Crabtree reported to Murdoch that he'd noted some cart-tracks leading from the unlocked gate to the stableyard, and had measured them, but opined that they seemed to be from a very common kind of cart.

Julia rejoined Murdoch as they began to make their way back to the cab.

"If this is indeed Miss Olivia," Julia said, "then he must have taken both of them together. That, along with the lack of any signs of violence on the bodies, argues that the women go with him willingly, at least at first. To overpower one woman is not difficult for a robust man, but two at once? That cannot have been done silently or without the risk that at least one would escape.

"William, do you think this man might be acquainted with his victims? Not closely, but enough so that they might accept an invitation from him?"

"That is indeed possible, Julia." Murdoch noted. "I'll ask George to conduct further enquiries into the victims' lives, especially their social contacts."

Just then, a voice from behind called. "Detective, Dr Ogden? A word in private, if I may?"

They turned to find young James Howlett approaching them with a determined look on his face. He began speaking without preamble.

"I must ask you not to mention this to my father, the matter upsets him. I need to explain to you that my senses – hearing, sight, smell – are very acute. Far more so than those of other people.

"When I found the blanket this morning, I knew what was in it: I could smell the body, but couldn't hear a heartbeat. I didn't tell father that, of course. He thinks I'm over-imaginative, not a trait he admires in a farmer.

"But I also smelled something else, Detective. It was on the blanket, not the body, and very faint, but it reminded me of the chemicals I smelled in a tannery we visited the other day. I'm not sure if that's helpful in any way, or even if you will believe me, but I thought you should know."

Murdoch and Julia shared a glance. The boy was clearly in earnest, and both of them had immediately thought of the large patches of skin that had been removed from the victims.

"Thank you for that, Mr Howlett." Murdoch said. "It is certainly something we will take into account. I gather that you would rather not place this in your formal statement?"

"Do you mind?" James asked. "Only Father...He's a down-to-earth man, Detective, and anything out of the ordinary bothers him."

"Then we will keep this between us." Murdoch told him.

"James," Julia asked, "this keenness of the senses – hyperaesthesia, it is called – how does it make you feel? Do you find it disturbing at all?"

James responded with a grin. "Don't worry, Dr Ogden. I'm no Roderick Usher! I've been like this all my life. It's grown with me and I'm used to it. Only for the last few years, I've learned to keep quiet about it!"

"A most unusual young man." Julia remarked as they left.

"There's something familiar about him." Murdoch told her. "I just cannot place it!"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Biographer**

**Three: A Significant Look**

Later that morning, Crabtree called at the morgue to see if Dr Grace had a preliminary report on the body. Cause of death and post-mortem mutilation exactly matched the other cases, and the young woman was indeed the missing Olivia.

"She was also a virgin." Dr Grace commented. "Which, given her work as a nude model, I find untypical. Such women often supplement a haphazard income with prostitution, for one thing. For another, it is not unusual for artists and models to develop a more intimate relationship."

"I think, Emily, that Miss Olivias' tastes ran in another direction." Crabtree pointed out. "She and Miss Arlena were very intimate friends, if you take my meaning."

"You mean that they were Sapphists, or – what's the other word – Lesbians?" Dr Grace asked.

"It would seem so." Crabtree allowed. "That, along with the Bohemian company they seem to have mixed in, gives them something in common with the other victims. All of them seem to have had unconventional ways of life."

Dr Grace shook her head. "It never occurred to me, George, before I met you and Detective Murdoch, that the study of victims – other than their bodies – could give clues to their killers. Perhaps you should name this kind of work – call it 'Victimology' or something?"

Crabtree laughed. "It would need greater minds than mine to make a science of it, Emily!"

"Don't belittle yourself, George!" She replied sharply. "Detective Murdoch has done a great deal to make the so-called art of detection into a science, and along with Dr Ogden, you have been one of his major collaborators. He depends upon your insights, more than he will admit."

"You're very kind, Emily." Crabtree replied, then looked again at the body on the slab. "I only wish that we had better ways of fathoming this kind of killing. Some kind of committee or group of detectives and psychologists who might examine the behaviour and find clearer clues as to the killer. What he wants, why he does things. It would make it much easier to find them then."

"You mean some kind of, I don't know, Behaviour Advisory Group?" Dr Grace suggested.

"Perhaps." Crabtree said, then grinned at her. "It would certainly make it easier to _bag_ this kind of killer!"

Dr Grace closed her eyes and shook her head. "George, even by your standards, that was truly dreadful!" She told him, then. "Please tell Detective Murdoch that I have examined the blankets. Both of them are, of course, bloodstained where they touched the skinned flesh. Other than that, they appear to have been clean, unused ones of a very common type which can be purchased inexpensively in several stores in the city.

"However, both of them have traces, among the folds, of sawdust and wood-shavings, much of which is also bloodstained. Wherever the killer works, he clearly puts this down in order to soak up the blood and facilitate cleaning."

"He's neat and tidy, then." Crabtree noted. "Or he works somewhere where he doesn't want traces left around."

"There is one other thing." Dr Grace said. "I am hesitant to bring it up, as I may have it wrong."

"Detective Murdoch wouldn't want us to overlook anything, Emily." Crabtree said firmly.

"Very well, George." She assented. "You are aware that womens' undergarments differ from mens'?"

"I have no practical experience of the matter." Crabtree assured her. "Though I have visited a corsetiere shop in the course of my duties."

"Quite so." She gave him a sly look, indicating that she didn't quite believe him, but didn't mind. "Well, such garments, after being worn all day, leave marks on the skin, similar to those left by a rumpled nightgown on the body of a sound sleeper. These marks take some time to fade away.

"Well, I have found no such marks on the bodies of any or our victims. Furthermore, examination of the soles of their feet, and my finding of foreign material, including embroidery threads from cushions and small breadcrumbs, in places where such things are not usually found, indicates to me that the victims spent at least the last several hours of their lives in a state of nakedness."

Crabtree nodded. "I'll inform Detective Murdoch." He said, then turned to go. At the door, however, he turned back.

"Emily, you are aware that you also have much in common with these victims?" He asked.

"It had occurred to me." She admitted.

"Then you will take extra care?" There was anxiety in his tone.

"Of course." She smiled. "Though it would be of some comfort if a stalwart young Constable were to escort me home tonight..."

"Gladly." He replied. "And if you should require supper, there is a new restaurant on the way, which specialises in Italian cuisine. I have never eaten cannelloni before, and am strongly tempted to try it."

"Then I will expect you this evening, George." She said firmly.

In the event, all three Howletts came to the station, arriving just as Constable Higgins was completing the statements from the docker Jim Logan and his manager. In fact, Logan was making his way toward the exit as the Howletts came in, bringing them face to face. Murdoch and Julia, on their way to meet the Howletts, were surprised to see John Howletts' face break into a broad grin.

"Thomas!" He cried, seizing Logans' hand and pumping it hard. "What's it been – fifteen years? What the heck are you doing here? Fighting again? You never could get a grip on that temper!"

"It was the other guy started it, Mr Howlett." Logan told him.

"Always was, always was!" Howlett said heartily. "But you could never turn the other cheek, any more than I could! Lizzie, you remember Thomas?"

Mrs Howlett seemed unduly hesitant as she came forward, but she offered her hand to Logan with a genuine smile. "Of course I do. How are you faring, Thomas?"

"Pretty well, Mrs Howlett." Logan allowed. He took her hand gently, and a look passed between them. A significant look that John Howlett clearly missed, but which caused Murdoch and Julia to exchange a glance of their own. "I go by Jim now, it was my father's name and Ma..." He broke off.

"You left us so you could care for your mother, I recall." Mrs Howlett said. "How is she?"

"Ma passed 'bout five years ago." Logan admitted.

"Then why didn't you come back?" Howlett asked. "We've missed you, Thomas, you were the best darn foreman I ever had!"

Logan shrugged. "Ma had a house and some savings she left me. I got work here, so I don't have to spend the savings until I need to, I got somewhere to live that's mine, and there's widow lady lives next door who..."

"No need to say any more!" Howlett told him. "You've got a good life here, and no man deserves it more. James, this is Thomas Logan, who was my foreman before you were born. Thomas, my son James."

The boy and the man shook hands, sizing each other up. It was then that Murdoch realised what had been bothering him about the look in young James' eyes.

At a little past midnight, James Howlett quietly opened his bedroom window, took a careful look around, then climbed onto the sill. He was clad in dark hunting clothes, moccasins on his feet, clothing that somehow suited him more than the sober attire he wore during the day.

The boy fixed his attention on the large tree that stood near the house. He gathered himself, then leapt. The distance was a good fifteen feet, feasible for a professional athlete with a run-up. James soared through the air with the feral grace of a cat, landing safely and silently among the sturdier branches. His descent to the lawn was accomplished with similar ease and grace. Then he set off across the lawn at an easy lope.

The back gate was now locked at night, by his fathers' orders, so James considered the stout brick wall. He grinned. Only ten feet. A quick run and leap, and his hands were on the top. He gave a brief hiss of pain, then flipped up and over, to land on his feet in the road behind.

James looked at his hands. Both palms were deeply gashed from the broken glass that topped the wall. Cursing quietly, he pulled up swatches of the grass that grew along the base of the wall and wiped the blood away. He used his teeth to pull a fragment out of one of the deeper cuts, then examined them again. They were already closing. By the morning, they would be completely gone.

Illicit night hunting was an old game for James Howlett, but he'd never done it in a city before. This would be a challenge. Fortunately, the day had been a dry, still one and most of the scents still hung in the air. There! Beneath the comings and goings of the day, the smell of dead human flesh, violet-scented skin cream, blood and the faint, acrid odour of tanning chemicals. He began following the scent, moving with rangy, tireless, distance-devouring strides.

Fortunately for him, the trail led away from the centre of the city, around the circumference. There was less chance that the scents would be lost among others. Even so, James was almost at fault more than once. It was also lucky that these streets were quiet at this hour. Other areas of Toronto remained active all night, but their denizens were even more dangerous than the wild animals James and his father hunted back home. As it was, none of the few people around were even aware of the young man slipping through the shadows.

It took some hours, but James traced the scents to their origin. A large villa, standing alone in its own grounds, surrounded by a high, untended hedge. There were no lights, but at this hour, that was to be expected. James noted a tangle of scents around the place, the most dominant being a man, the most recent a young woman. There was no scent of fear, but there was tension.

James glanced to the Eastern sky. Dawn was not close, yet, but he had to get back. He knew the route now, and could get here much more quickly tomorrow night. For now, he had to get home, wash up and catch a couple hours sleep before his morning ride.

Albert Creeves was the foremost tanner and leather merchant in Toronto, but he had been more than willing to come in and discuss matters with Murdoch. He made no secret of that fact that his cooperation was in large part due to his belonging to the same Freemasons' lodge as George Crabtree.

"Brother Crabtree often speaks of you in the highest terms, Detective." Creeves said in his rusty voice. "It is, you know, something of a disappointment to us that you have declined invitations to join our lodge."

Murdoch shrugged. "I understand that much of the work done by the Freemasons in philanthropic causes is admirable." He allowed. "But I am a Roman Catholic, sir, and my church has strong views on Freemasonry."

"Quite so, quite so." Creeves' face partook in some degree of the qualities of his products, and his teeth were the yellow of a heavy smoker, but his smile was entirely genuine. "Now, I understand from Brother Crabtree that this conversation is highly confidential. You may be assured, Detective, of my absolute discretion."

"Thank you, Mr Creeves." Murdoch acknowledged. "Perhaps we can begin by you telling me the kinds of uses to which leather is put?"

Creeves raised his eyebrows. "There are many uses, Detective, as I am sure you are aware. Drive-belts for industrial and agricultural machinery. Weatherproof covers of all kinds. Furniture, shoes, belts, gloves and so on. Leather is a flexible and durable material, one of the few fully water-resistant ones we have.

"Of course, a great deal depends on the hide the leather is made from. Some are thick, heavy and coarse-grained, others almost as thin and fine as fabrics."

"I see." Murdoch considered, then said. "I must reiterate, sir, that this conversation is part of an ongoing investigation and as such, wholly confidential.

"With that in mind, could you speculate as to what use might be made of leather made from human skin?"

Creeves' eyes widened, then became intent. "Strange as it may seem, Detective, that practice is far from rare. Many tribes in more primitive parts of the world still produce masks and other sacred items using the skins of defeated enemies or former chiefs. In the last century, it was regrettably common for troopers in the US Cavalry to use parts of the skin of dead Indians to make tobacco pouches. Similar things are said to have been done by the British in India and the Boers in South Africa. It is also not unknown for the skins of executed murderers to be treated in this way. Some people have even requested that part of their skin be tanned after their death.

"Once, a long time ago, in Europe, I was shown examples of human leather. It is, as one might imagine, a very thin, fine-grained leather, almost as fine as calfskin. Not truly useful for anything other than gloves, note-cases and book covers, though one might make shoes or belts of it, as long as heavy wear was not required.

"But the most common use for it, outside of primitive societies, is as a covering for books."

"I was not aware that such practices still existed." Murdoch noted. "Tell me, sir, if you can, what could be made with the amount of skin one could take from the back of an average-sized woman?"

Creeves' eyebrows shot up, but he controlled himself and thought carefully. "You must understand, Detective, my company does not manufacture the actual articles, we merely provide the hides. That said, we do, if the customer wishes it, cut the leather to a size suitable for them to work with.

"The amount you speak of, subject to careful stretching and depending on the expertise of the maker, might run to a pair of gloves, or a belt, a notecase or a book cover."

_All these women led uncommon lives._ Murdoch thought. _They all had a story to tell. They were all kept alive for some time before they were killed._ It was a theory, but worth following up.

"What kind of book are we talking about, Mr Creeves?" He asked.

Creeves blew out his cheeks. "Well, from what I know of my dealings with book-binders, not enough for a Folio or even a Quarto volume, but certainly enough for an Octavo, and more than sufficient for a Duodecimo book."

"And do you supply many book-binders in Toronto?" Murdoch asked.

Creeves nodded. "Not as many, or as much, as in my grandfathers' day. This is an age of mass literacy, Detective. Most people can read, and many do so for entertainment as well as education. Leather binding is a luxury, and not a cheap one. Most books these days are either paper-backed or cloth-bound, have been since the 1830s. But some binders still do use leather for their more discerning customers. I can give you a list, if you think it will help."

"It very well may, Mr Creeves, I am most grateful for your assistance." Murdoch said.

_It may go nowhere, but it's the first whisper of a lead we have, and all from a young boys' over-keen senses._

Forming a social profile of the victims was not as difficult as it might have been. Dr Julia Ogden, due to her social status and well-known achievements, had the entree to Torontos' intellectual circles, whilst Dr Grace had moved in the more Bohemian ones for many years. It was not difficult for them to find traces of the dead women. Nor was it hard to obtain information about their activities. Such circles are full of gossip, for one thing. For another, there was genuine concern about the missing women.

None of the victims had been publicly identified as yet, but some people had already drawn conclusions, and were even more willing to help. The result was a vast fund of information which the two women duly brought to Detective Murdoch.

"There is, unsurprisingly, a considerable number of people who move in both sets." Julia said. "Intellectual figures, especially artists and writers, are accepted among the intelligentsia, but drawn toward the Bohemian. I suggest that we concentrate our efforts on this group."

There were some people it was easy to discard. Individuals intimately known to many, often highly-regarded in both circles, whose movements were too easily tracked.

"Whatever our _unsub_ is doing," said Crabtree, who had joined them after his patrol was over, "takes some time. He won't be anyone who is seen every night, as it were."

"Unsub, George?" Murdoch asked.

"Yes, sir." George told him. "The _Un_identified _Sub_ject of our enquiry. Unsub."

"I think we can leave the shorthand to the secretaries, George." Murdoch said firmly."Otherwise, Dr Grace will be telling us that our victims were "DUA" rather than dead upon arrival at the Morgue."

"And Heaven forbid that we should start referring to the victims as 'vics'." Julia added, laughing.

It was mid-afternoon before they had narrowed it down to three potential suspects. Murdoch began to write on his chalkboard.

"So we have Alan Slater, proponent of the macabre in art." He said. "He has been known to photograph corpses in order to superimpose their features onto paintings posed by live models, who he dresses in grave-clothes. He has a large collection of morbid artefacts, which he gleefully displays to visitors. He has been arrested once for attempting to illegally purchase anatomical specimens, but no charges were brought. He kept a dead pig in an outhouse in order to document the process of decay, until he removed it - without police intervention - due to complaints from his neighbours."

"Alan is a harmless eccentric." Dr Grace pointed out. "Besides, he lives in a small house in the middle of a street. He has neither the space nor the privacy to perform these killings, or to keep a woman prisoner for so long."

"Very well." Murdoch noted. "Next, Gregory Standing, chemist and occasional poet. He left his teaching post at the University in order to pursue some private research, which he hints about, but does not explain. Believed to supplement his private income by selling opiates and stimulants to some members of his circle."

"I know the man." Julia noted. "If my inferences about his work are correct, he believes that drugs are the answer to any and all psychological problems. He once spoke to me about 'correcting the chemistry of the brain'. He is an unpleasant man, and I suspect him of indulging in his own merchandise. I don't think any woman not dependent on what he sells would willingly go anywhere with him, and I doubt he has the physical vigour left to restrain a healthy one."

"Which brings us," Murdoch said, "to Frederick Symonds. Known to one and all as 'the Notebook Man', he is an inveterate collector of anecdotes and tall tales. Symonds runs a small bookshop in the city, which specialises in rare volumes and special editions. He also has a sideline in bespoke book-binding for a small and exclusive clientele.

"He is also, not surprisingly, on the list of customers supplied by Mr Creeves.

"On the surface, he seems to fit our case best, but his registered address is a small apartment above his shop. Quite unsuitable for the purpose of these crimes."

"So, what do we do now?" Julia asked.

"I'm afraid it is time for George and I to do a little old-fashioned police work." Murdoch told her. "George, dig into the backgrounds of out three suspects, see if you can find anything else of use or out of the ordinary.

"Julia, if you and Dr Grace could go over the post-mortem results once again, see if there is anything else of note. Also, you might discuss the matter further with a view to any psychological insights you may have.

"I myself will talk to our three suspects."

Entirely in contrast to the pale, hollow-eyed aesthete Murdoch had been expecting, the macabre artist Alan Slater was a short, plump, cheery young man with thinning blond hair and rosy cheeks. He offered Murdoch tea and sat with him in a cosy sitting room that looked out onto a bright, well-kept garden.

The only jarring note was the large canvas that hung above the fireplace. Executed mainly in blacks and greys, it depicted a wild background of jagged peaks and ragged forests under a sky full of torn, smoky clouds. In a lower corner there was a cluster of grey, indefinite figures clustered around something that might have been either a bed or an altar. On this lay one of the only pieces of white on the painting, so white that it stood out sharply, drawing the eye. The figure was of a naked woman, but so executed as to remove all suggestions of sexuality. The limbs were fleshless, the ribs visible and the breasts pitifully shrunken. The face was gaunt, hollow-eyed and slack-mouthed, giving an impression of utter hopelessness, but staring upward at the only other piece of white on the canvas. This was a half-moon in the sky, but somehow, if you looked at the picture long enough, the moon became a skull-face, and the clouds wreathed around it made it appear as a gigantic cloaked and hooded figure bending over the woman.

"Do you like it, Detective?" Slater asked.

"I am note sure 'like' is the right word." Murdoch allowed. "It certainly makes an impression!"

"So it should, so it should!" The artist said happily. "Detective Murdoch, I have followed your cases in the papers, and have talked with Emily Grace. You are a man of intellect and sensitivity, but steeped in the business of death. For you it is, I understand, a duty, a calling. But for others...!

"Look outside, look at the garden, the sunshine, the birds and insects. Walk the streets of this city, hear the hustles and bustle, feel the energy. That is life, Detective! Vibrant, unstoppable, delightful life!

"But what do so many of us spend our time doing? Thinking about death, worrying about death, staving off death. For every one person who embraces life, there are ten who do nothing but dread their eventual extinction.

"Well, Detective, I am an artist, and the job of an artist is to teach people new truths, or confirm old ones. As such, I intend to rub peoples' noses in the so-called terrors of death, the mysteries of death, the realities of death until they either lose their fear of them or grow tired of them. Then, perhaps, they will embrace life as it should be!

"More tea? Do have a macaroon."

Murdoch was by now fully prepared to accept Dr Graces' assessment of Slater as a harmless eccentric, but continued his questioning. Yes, Slater had known both Arlena and Olivia. No, he had never employed them as models, they were both too buxom and healthy for his type of work. He could not recall knowing any of the other women personally, though he had heard of one of them. Yes, he had records of the models he had hired and Murdoch was welcome to see the books. No, he had no idea about the tanning of leather, what an odd question. This was his only residence, he was not short of money but saw no reason to keep more than one place. He kept a diary, and could account for his whereabouts on almost any date. Was there anything else he could help with?

Murdoch thanked him and came away, more than half convinced that this amiable young man was playing a colossal joke, in the form of art, on his admirers and critics alike.

Dr Gregory Standing was not available for interview, and might never be again. The Head of the private sanatorium Murdoch finally traced Standing to explained that he had been driven to testing some of his experimental preparations on himself. The results on his body had been bad enough, but those on his mind had been irreparable. He had been in a catatonic state for the last six weeks.

Which left Frederick Symonds, whose bookshop was on a busy square near the middle of Toronto. Murdoch loved bookshops, especially this kind, where the volumes were piled on shelves in no particular order, and the shelves themselves were so haphazardly arranged as to form an absolute maze. When he had time, he could browse for hours in one of these places, in the hope of finding a hidden gem among the dross. Sometimes, he even daydreamed that by turning the wrong – or perhaps the right – corner, he might find himself in a completely different world.

However, he was here on business now, and bent his attention on Symonds, a man of about fifty, tall and well-built, with a mane of silver hair, a lined but handsome face and an easy charm. Symonds freely admitted to knowing all the women, and expressed to Murdoch his concern that he hadn't seen any of them in some time. "One hears things, Detective. Things that can lead to unpleasant speculation."

He showed Murdoch his small binding workshop with some pride, explaining that the majority of the work he did was for authors, or would-be authors, who had published small runs of their work at their own expense, and wanted some volumes in special binding for themselves or intimate friends.

When Murdoch asked about his hobby of collecting anecdotes, Symonds launched himself into full flow.

"Truth, Detective!" He declaimed. "Among the false chatter of advertising and the grandiose lies of politicians, it has become a rare and precious commodity. The tales I collect, however false or embroidered they may be, each reveal a nugget, a glimmer, of the truth of the person who tells them. There are some, I am glad to say, which are refreshing in their honesty, but from the others truth must be mined as diamonds are, then cut and polished to reveal true beauty.

"But what do we expect? Every aspect of our lives requires us to lie, to conceal. Modesty, policy, morality, even the law itself, compels us to hide the truth of our nature. This woman has a fine body she loves to display, but yet must clothe herself every day, pretending to a modesty that is not hers. This man is born to fight and kill, but must suppress his instincts for fear of the gallows. Some loathe children, but become parents for the sake of social or family duty. Many despise their work, but claim ambition in order to rise in a social order which is, in itself, the product of lies. The lies of politicians, of rich men who wish to keep the poor abject, and of the purveyors of the nonsense we call religion!"

William Murdoch was a devout man, and though the experiences of his life had taught him some scepticism of the fine details of dogma and the restrictive practices of the Church, he retained his belief in a benevolent God. However, he had met atheists before and was not inclined to be drawn into an argument or allow himself to be offended. Instead, he asked if Symonds could account for his whereabouts on the dates and at the times when the women had disappeared or bodies been found.

Symonds allowed that he could not, in detail, immediately.

"Unless I go out to a gathering, Detective – and I am invited to many – then I work here until late, and retire to my rooms upstairs. I employ two young men to work in the store with me, but both leave when I close up for the evening. If you will allow me to look back over my notebooks -where I keep dates and times of the conversations I record – as well as any invitation cards and letters I may have kept, I might be able to give you some indication. But this would take some time. Could I bring this material to you at the station-house, say tomorrow?"

"Very well." Murdoch said. "I will expect you then."

As he left, Murdoch decided to have Constable Higgins watch the shop tonight, and also to post a watch near the house of Alan Slater. One could never be too careful.

It was late when he got back to the station house and dispatched the two constables to their duties. Julia and Dr Grace had left for the day. Julia had left a note, saying she hoped to see him tomorrow, that she knew how case-work absorbed him, and to remember to get some sleep.

It was a short while after that Crabtree came in.

"Sir," he said, "I looked into various records regarding our suspects. There was nothing untoward except this. It seems Mr Symonds owns a large house on the edge of town, near a river. It belonged to an aunt, who left it to him when she died a year or so ago. He doesn't live there, but the house is maintained in a habitable condition, and food is delivered there. The neighbours have seen lights, but assume the house ir rented. People don't seem to come and go, but there is a large garden with a high hedge, so little can be seen from the road. Besides, the nearest neighbours are more than a quarter of a mile away."

"An ideal place for our killer to carry out operations." Murdoch noted. "Excellent work, George! We may have to pay a visit tomorrow."

The telephone rang, Murdoch picked it up.

"Detective Murdoch." He announced.

"William?" It was Julia. "William, this may be important. A colleague of mine has just informed me that a young woman named Anna Blessingham has not been seen for some days. It is out of character, as she was a graduate student at the University and was in the middle of a lengthy campaign to gain the right for women to be full Fellows of the college!"

"This does match the character of our previous victims, Julia." Murdoch told her. "We do have someone in mind as a suspect. I had planned to investigate further tomorrow, but it seems we must act more quickly. Thank you for letting me know."

"Be careful, William!" Julia pleaded, then hung up.

Murdoch had barely set the instrument down when it rang again.

"Sir? It's Constable Higgins. Sir, Symonds is on the move! I saw him leave an alleyway some distance from the shop, there must be a back entrance we didn't know about. He hailed a cab, sir."

"Do you know where he's going, Constable?" Murdoch asked. Fortunately, Higgins had managed to overhear the direction given to the cabbie.

"Good work, Henry!" Murdoch commended the man. "Now stay where you are and contact the station if he should return."

Murdoch put the telephone down and opened the desk drawer, extracting a heavy, long-barrelled revolver.

"George, he's heading for the house. There's no time to lose. Get a rifle and a couple of horses, and hope we're not too late!"


	4. Chapter 4

**The Biographer**

**Four: Unleashed**

James Howlett had slipped away early. His parents were entertaining, and it was not really expected for James to take part in the soiree, he was too young, yet. But at least the music and chatter made it easier for him to get out. Now he made his way over to the villa, climbing the well-grown hedge with little difficulty and slipping into the shadows of the trees that dotted the grounds.

There was a light in one of the upper storey windows, but the ground floor was dark. James knew better than to try to enter at the front of the house, so he made his way to the back. The rear door was locked, as he had expected. So were all the windows, but window catches were notoriously easy to slip with a penknife.

James moved silently through the ground floor. He didn't need much light, he had the eyes of a cat. He'd entered into a perfectly ordinary kitchen, but the food smells were almost suppressed by the other scents. Fear, death, blood.

The next room he found was deeply carpeted, and hung with heavy curtains and tapestries. The hangings gave the place a sombre air, not much relieved by the tall candelabra in each corner, with their freight of thin white candles. The stench of death was strong here, and the smell of fear stronger still. But nothing recent, nothing immediate.

In the centre of the room was a chair, an unusual chair. It looked comfortable enough at first, until he saw the straps. They were leather, but lined with silk. One on each arm to secure the wrists, and another that would fasten around the body. The back of the chair was even more peculiar. It was straight, lacking the backward slant of most easy chairs. Up the centre of it, apparently socketed into the floor and clamped to the back of the chair, was a stout iron post. The post extended beyond the top of the chair-back by some feet, and attached to it was a contraption. A metal loop, that could be tightened or loosened by a crank, while the whole fixture could be moved up and down the post.

James had never seen or heard of the garrotte chair, but he was a bright young man. It took him only a few minutes to figure out how this thing worked. It made him feel sick. Calculated murder was something he could not understand.

The next room was some kind of workshop. There was a marble-topped table, scrupulously scrubbed – he could smell the lye – and the wooden floor was also pristine. Despite this, the place reeked of blood and dead flesh. The door beyond was locked, but James could smell the chemicals beyond it, like the tanning yard.

Then he heard the sounds upstairs. Soft, quick footfalls, pacing around, a muffled sob. He went up the stairs, swift and silent as a ghost. The sounds came from the room he had seen lit from outside. He waited outside the door, breathing in the scent. Young, female, scared, and a strong smell of violets.

He tapped on the door. The pacing stopped. He tapped again.

"Who's there?" A womans' voice, scared and quavering.

"Stand back from the door, ma'am!" James called, then stepped back and kicked the door hard, just under the lock. For his age and size, James was a very powerful young man. With a crackle of splintering wood, the door flew open.

The room was comfortably furnished, warm and softly lit. The young woman standing in the middle of it was quite naked. On seeing James, she gave a small shriek and attempted to cover herself as best she could with her hands and arms. James was not bothered, he had seen naked women before. Not a difficult feat for a boy in a country area, especially one as stealthy as James could be. Besides, there were other concerns. His preternatural hearing had just caught the sound of an approaching cab.

Tonight, James had worn a coat, a long stockmans' coat. He pulled it off and passed it to the woman.

"We got to go, ma'am." He said quietly. "He's coming back."

She didn't argue, but pulled on the coat. James considered giving her his shoes, but his feet were bigger than hers, and if they had to run, she would do better barefoot. They made their way downstairs to the kitchen and began to climb out of the window James had come in by. Unfortunately, the woman was neither as practised nor as confident as James, and she managed to make a fearful racket climbing out.

The sound that came from the room beyond was a roar of pure rage. James pushed the woman the rest of the way out of the window.

"Run!" He told her. "Run and don't look back or stop!"

She was too shaken and scared to question his orders, despite his age. She turned and ran. James moved into the centre of the kitchen, as clear as he could of any obstructions. The man who came crashing through the door was white-haired, not a young man, but he was big and fit-looking, and he was holding a long, heavy-looking knife.

He said nothing, just charging at James and swinging the knife for this throat. James ducked under the knife and thrust both fists, his full weight behind them, into the mans' stomach. His attacker doubled over with a wheezing grunt. James dived for the window, felt his ankle being grabbed, kicked out and was rewarded with a yelp and an oath. The grip was gone, however, and James made it to the lawn. He began to run. Behind him, the rear door opened, but James wasn't worried, the man would never overtake him. All he had to do was fix the hunters' attention on him so that the woman could get away.

Then everything changed, as a familiar voice shouted: "Mr Symonds! Toronto Constabulary! Halt!"

Murdoch and Crabtree made record time to the villa, but when they got there, they found that others had arrived first. A carriage was outside, and a man and a woman were standing by the gate.

As Murdoch dismounted, the couple approached him. The woman was Elizabeth Howlett, the man Jim Logan.

"Detective Murdoch!" The woman said. "Thank goodness you're here! My son is in there!"

"How do you know?" Murdoch asked.

"I been following him the last couple nights." Logan said. "That boy's hard to track, I'll tell you!"

"At home, James often goes out to hunt at night." Mrs Howlett explained. "He thinks I don't know, but I am in the habit of checking on him during the night. Out in the country, he knows exactly what he is up against, but the city is different. So, when I realised Thomas was in town, I asked him privately to keep an eye on my son at night. He is also an excellent hunter."

"The gate is unlocked, sir." Crabtree informed them.

"Then we had best go up to the house." Murdoch decided. "Do you know if anyone else is in the house?"

"Cab passed us going the the way as we drove up." Logan supplied.

They had not gone far when they spotted a figure running madly toward them. Whoever it was ran so blindly that they cannoned into Murdoch before they saw him. Fortunately, they were not heavy, and he was able to keep his feet and support them.

It was a woman, wearing a long coat and, apparently, nothing else.

"That's James' coat!" Exclaimed Mrs Howlett.

"Miss Anna Blessingham?" Murdoch asked. The woman nodded.

"The boy." She gasped. "He got me out. He's in there with him!"

"We will take care of it." Murdoch promised her. "Mrs Howlett, would you?"

She nodded and took hold of the younger woman.

The three men advanced and a moment later saw the stocky figure of James Howlett pelting toward them, with the tall, white-haired form of Symonds in pursuit, brandishing an ugly knife. It was clear that the boy had a definite advantage in foot-speed, but he seemed to be holding back, as if encouraging his pursuer to keep following him.

Murdoch bellowed: "Mr Symonds! Toronto Constabulary! Halt!"

Both figures skidded to a stop, then Symonds turned on his heel and bolted for the woods behind the house. James hesitated for a second, then beckoned to the men, turned and followed Symonds – this time at an easy, hunting lope.

Murdoch spun round and went back to the two women. "Mrs Howlett," he said, producing one of Julias' cards. "please get Miss Blessingham into your carriage and take her to this address. Dr Ogden is accustomed to being called at odd hours, so she will not mind. She is also a colleague of mine and will understand what is needed. Ask her to telephone Inspector Brackenreid and have him bring a squad, armed, to this address."

Mrs Howlett nodded and began to lead Miss Blessingham away. Murdoch returned to the men.

"George?" He asked.

"Sir," Crabtree pointed into the woods, "if I am correct, that belt of woods is no more than a mile and a half deep. It ends at a river which runs through a deep gorge into the lake. When Symonds reaches it, he must either turn South to the lake or North down into the valley. The lake shore is high and steep at this point, and there is no cover in the valley. We have him, sir, unless he chooses to double back to the city."

"Then let's get after him!" Growled Logan. "He won't know how to hide his trail. I could follow him in the dark, and we got a good moon tonight."

"Are you armed, Mr Logan?" Murdoch asked.

"Got a clasp knife and my fists." The docker replied. "All I've ever needed."

"Then we had better begin." Murdoch said. "Before they get too far ahead!"

James Howlett was exhilarated. He'd always enjoyed hunting, but this was different. Before he'd hunted animals, but now his quarry was human. Not only human, but wicked! Whatever this man Symonds had been doing, or going to do, to that woman could not have been good. Especially since James' infallible senses had given him the link between the mans' house and the dead girl found at the stables.

James had always had a strong sense of right and wrong, and his willingness to stand up and fight for his beliefs had gotten him into trouble more than once. But it had also gained him the respect of people older than himself, including the bigger kids at school. His father had sometimes joined in the posses that were occasionally formed back home to hunt down criminals. James had never been allowed to go along because of his age. It was frustrating, because he knew in his heart he was the best hunter in the area.

But now he was unleashed, and at that moment he felt that this was what he was born to do. The moon was bright, bright as daylight to his eyes, and the scent of his quarry hung in the air and lay on the ground. All James needed was the opportunity to guide the detective and his men to the villain, and his job would be done.

It came sooner than he expected. The woods suddenly gave way to a small clearing. The sound of the river was loud, here, and James saw his quarry, hesitating on the edge of the gorge, casting about for another route. James put his fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, one he knew would carry for miles.

"Over here!" He yelled. He could hear the other men, they were not far off.

Symonds spun, focusing on the boy. James stepped toward him, speaking quietly, reasonably.

"It's time to stop." He said. "You have nowhere to go, sir. The police will be here in a moment, and it will go better for you if you give yourself up."

For answer, Symonds lunged at the boy with his knife. The attack was so sudden that, quick as he was, James couldn't twist away fast enough. Cold fire lanced across his ribs, there was a sudden, searing pain in his wrists and hands. The world spun and went red.

Jim Logan led Murdoch and Crabtree quickly and surely through the woods. "Leaving a trail as wide as an elephants' backside." He noted.

The noise of the river became steadily louder, but even so, the sound of a shrill whistle came to them clear, followed by a shout of "Over here!". The three men plunged through the woods toward it, emerging into a clearing and a scene none of them would ever forget.

Symonds stood in front of James, brandishing his bloodstained knife. James, however, stood tense, drawn to his full height. His hands were raised above his head, fists clenched, and blood ran down his side from an ugly-looking slash. As they watched, the boy threw back his head and _roared_ – a wordless bellow of equal parts pain and rage.

Suddenly, rivulets of blood ran down from his hands along his arms, and the impossible happened. From the back of each bloody hand emerged three claws. They were about a foot long, curved and pointed, and they gleamed in the moonlight like ivory.

James dropped into a fighting crouch, then attacked with blinding speed. Within seconds, Symonds had been driven back to the edge of the gorge, his clothing tattered, bleeding from a dozen deep cuts. Then James landed a punch that drove his claws deep into Symonds stomach. The madman responded by clasping both hands on his knife and bringing the heavy hilt down on the boys' head. It was a killing blow, and James slumped to the ground, his claws pulling free of his opponent. Symonds made to raise the knife again, but there was the sudden crash of a rifle next to Murdoch.

Crabtrees' marksmanship was as reliable as ever. Symonds' head literally shattered as the heavy slug slammed through it. The almost-decapitated body swayed for a moment at the edge of the gorge, then toppled over and was gone.

The three men rushed to the fallen boy. Murdoch felt for a pulse.

"He's alive." He said tersely. He examined the lads' head as best he could. There was a deep cut from the hilt, but it had stopped bleeding and, incredibly, was already healing. The same was happening to the long cut along the ribs. As Murdoch and Logan watched, the claws slowly retracted back into James' hands, and the tears they had forced themselves through closed almost at once.

"He should have been killed by that blow." Murdoch said quietly. "But he seems to be in a deep, but normal, sleep."

He rose and went over to where Crabtree stood at the brink of the gorge.

"Excellent shooting, George." He commended. "What are the chances of recovering the body?"

"Very slim." Crabtree admitted. "The current is fast here, and there are a good many sharp rocks." He looked shrewdly at his superior. "The body is likely to be well out into the lake by daylight, sir, and the rocks will have done enough damage to mask any other wounds, in the event that it is ever found."

"Thank you, George." Murdoch said. "I think you should go back to the house now, and see if the squad I asked for has been sent. The place will need to be thoroughly searched."

Crabtree nodded and left. Murdoch returned to where James Logan had covered the boy with his own coat.

"He's sleeping like a baby, and healing like a wild animal." Logan said. "What did we see tonight, Detective?"

Murdoch came to a decision. "We saw a brave but foolish young man tackle an armed lunatic much larger than himself." He said firmly. "He received a slash along the side, a knock on the head, and bruised knuckles for his pains. He got off lightly and his father should have a stern word or two with him, but he has the thanks of the Constabulary for his courage and quick thinking.

"I dare say Miss Blessingham will want to say a word or two as well. If she is not too embarrassed at the state in which he seems to have found her."

Logan nodded. "Thanks." He said simply.

"He is your son, is he not?" Murdoch asked gently. "He strongly resembles his mother, but he has your eyes."

Logan sighed. "John Howlett wanted nothing more than a son to carry on his name. He'd gone from nothing to the wealthiest man in the county, and he wanted someone of his own blood to leave it to. Nothing was happening, and it was making things hard between him and Lizzie.

"I was his foreman, but we were all more like friends. John's a jealous man, but for some reason he never minded me being around her. Well, he was away to market with the cattle for a couple days, and left me in charge, so I was up at the house a lot. Lizzie and I got to talking, then she was crying and pouring her heart out to me. One thing led to another – we both had a moment of weakness, I suppose. It only happened the once, Detective, and we never spoke of it after. But then she was pregnant, and John was overjoyed, and we both knew but couldn't say anything.

"Then I got the letter from Ma. She was sick and alone and needed me. So I left. It was for the best.

"Lizzie writes me a couple times a year, when John's away, so I knew a bit about the boy. She told me he was different, but this...! What is he, Detective?"

"He is a fine and brave young man." Murdoch declared. "Mr Logan, I am a man of reason, of science, and it may be that an answer can be found in the science of evolution. But I am also a man of faith, and I believe that God does not place men like your son in the world without good reason."

Julia had not been in bed. She knew that William was once again putting himself in harms' way, and though he had more than once proved himself equal to such tasks, she loved him, so she worried. The frantic knocking on her door caused her a pang of dread, but she rose to the occasion and answered.

She recognised both women, of course, and was both relieved and concerned by Mrs Howletts' terse message. Whatever Brackenreids' other limitations might be, he was always quick to answer a call to action, so after she put the telephone down, she was able to give her full attention to Miss Blessingham.

The inadequately-clad young woman was obviously in shock and near exhaustion, but otherwise physically well. Julia lent her a nightgown and gave her a sedative, settling her in the spare room. Then she came downstairs and made tea for herself and Mrs Howlett. The woman seemed to want to talk, so Julia let her.

"I should have known James would want to be out at night." She said. "He doesn't seem to need much sleep and there's something wild about him at times." She sighed. "He was a sickly baby, you know. He caught everything, he always seemed to have a fever or a cough. John was worried that we'd produced a weakling, I was scared I was going to lose him. I used to wake up and creep into the nursery in the middle of the night, just to make sure he was still breathing. I never got out of the habit. If I had, I'd not have known about his going out."

She gave a little laugh. "And it's funny, you know, because since James was five years old, he's never had a days' illness. Even the bumps and bruises and cuts that any lively small boy collects seemed to heal so quickly. Unnaturally quickly. Now...now he's made of steel and leather and nothing seems able to touch him.

"Dr Ogden, I've never told anyone else about this, but I've noticed. James is a very..acute...boy. His eyes and ears are sharp, very sharp. _Too _sharp."

Julia nodded. "I know, Mrs Howlett. James spoke to me of it himself when I first met him. The condition is called 'hyperaesthesia', and it is a rare one. In some cases the sensory acuteness can be morbid, and damaging to the sufferer. James, however, possibly because he has had the condition since childhood, seems unaffected psychologically. You needn't fear for your boy in that regard."

"Thank God!" Mrs Howlett said sincerely. "I thought perhaps my sin had found me out." She looked steadily at Julia. "You are a clever woman, Dr Ogden, and your Detective Murdoch misses nothing. You must know the reason why I asked Thomas to watch over my boy, rather than my husband."

"We had suspected." Julia replied. "But _my_ Detective Murdoch?"

Elizabeth Howlett laughed. "I may not be a detective myself, Doctor, but any woman knows that when another woman, quite unconsciously, brushes lint from a mans' jacket, it can only mean one thing!" She became serious again. "John and Thomas had been friends, and had worked together, long before John and I were married. We met in Chicago, where I was born and raised. We were fond of each other, and my parents deemed the marriage a suitable one – John was already well-off, even then – so we were wed.

"John, of course, wanted an heir to the fortune he was building, and I wanted a child. We tried. I miscarried several times. We consulted doctors, even the local Blackfoot shaman. They all told us to be patient. But it was hard on both of us, John especially.

"Then he went away on business, leaving Thomas and I to run things." She sighed. "I am not sure even now whether taking Thomas Logan to my bed was an act of lust or of policy, Doctor Ogden. In many ways, I saw him as an extension of my husband, the two of them as parts of a whole. The man means a great deal to me, and we are friends, always will be, but I do not love him.

"Whatever the motive, the end was the same. John finally had the son he longed for, and Thomas left. Later, when I realised how different James was, is, I thought perhaps God had cursed me with a monster!"

Julia shook her head. "Whatever your son may be, Mrs Howlett, he is no monster. Brave, certainly. Reckless, undoubtedly. But he risked himself to ensure Miss Blessingham's safety. That is not the act of a monster."

Mrs Howlett nodded. "There is one other thing, Doctor. John has all the pride of a father in James. He praises the boys' hunting skills, his strength and quickness. But he does not, or perhaps will not, see how these exceed the normal. Let him continue like this. If he were ever to suspect that James might be other than a normal young man, there would be terrible consequences for both of them. John is a good man, but when his temper is roused, he can commit acts which, however much he regrets them afterward, are dreadful."

"Which only leaves the question," Julia said, "of how we explain the nights' activities to your husband?"

"Oh, we have time to deal with that!" Mrs Howlett told her. "Directly after the supper tonight, John caught the sleeper train to Buffalo, he has business there. He will not be back for two days at least. Between then and now we can produce a version of events that will satisfy him. Though I doubt it will spare James a fatherly talking-to!"

The search of Symonds' house produced all the evidence that could be hoped for. Notebooks which told the life-stories of the dead women. A small printing press to produce printed copies, a book-binding workshop and at least two completed volumes. The lives of the first two victims, elegantly printed and bound in their own skins. There were other signs of work in progress.

In the attic was a small apartment, consisting of bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. It was occupied by a woman of about twenty-five, who on questioning was found to be an imbecile. Dr Ogden characterised her as a 'mongoloid' as defined by the British doctor John Langdon Down in 1866. It seemed that the daily care of "Misters' ladies" devolved upon this kindly but child-like woman. She knew or could understand nothing else, and was cast into genuine sorrow at the news that 'Mister' was dead.

"He was genuinely charming." Anna Blessingham told Murdoch and Julia the next day. "He explained that he was writing a book about remarkable women, and wanted to interview me. Of course, I was flattered. It never occurred to me to ask for a chaperone – such a stuffy old custom. He took me to his flat above the shop, and gave me coffee. After that I remember nothing until I woke up, naked, in that room.

"I was treated well, that imbecile woman saw that I had enough to eat and generally looked after me. But there were rules. I was never allowed clothes – no-one in that house wore clothes. I had to bathe every day and rub that ointment into my skin – the serving woman helped with that – and I had to give interviews.

"Mr Symonds wanted every detail of my life. We would sit in that room, both naked, and he would encourage me to talk. I was afraid he would take advantage or try to force me, but he never touched me. I asked him about the clothing, and he said that he was after truth, and that clothes were just another way of hiding our true selves. Only if we were naked could we be honest.

"I asked to be let go. I said I would visit him whenever he asked, and tell him the story he required. Even that I would undress for the interviews if that was what he wanted. But he told me he could not rely on me to take the needed care of myself during the process. That there were certain other procedures necessary to the completion of the book that required me to remain there.

"That was when I began to worry and be frightened. These 'other procedures' – he would never explain them. I expected sexual assault at least, possibly worse. I realised I was a prisoner. The imbecile woman was no help – she adored her 'Mister', as she called him. I suspect he used her to relieve himself after our interviews, but he was always kind to her otherwise."

"So" Brackenreid summed up later, "Symonds forced the women to tell him their life stories, while keeping them captive. Then when he had the story, he strangled them in that chair thing, took the skin off their backs, tanned it, and used it to bind the books he made. Bloody Hell, Murdoch! I've seen some stuff in this job, but never anything that twisted!

"What about the Howlett boy?"

"Recovering well." Murdoch told him. "He did not expect, I think, to have a physical encounter with Symonds. He merely felt himself to be the best hunter there, more able to lead us to the quarry. He has a shallow cut along his side, a knock on the head and some bruises on his hands. He acquitted himself remarkably well against a grown man. Though I dare say his father will have words to say on the subject of his recklessness!"

"One thing puzzles me." Brackenreid admitted. "With all that big garden, why did he dump the bodies where they would be found? It would have made more sense to bury them there."

It was Julia who answered. "Outside of his particular obsession, Mr Symonds seems to have been a kindly man, Inspector. The search party did find two shallow graves in the grounds, with the skeletons of two women. By referring to two more volumes we found in his 'library', we can infer that these women were unfortunates, common prostitutes if you will. People nobody would miss, and who disappear unmourned and unregarded on a daily basis.

"His later victims, though, had families and friends. I suspect Symonds wanted them to be able to bury their lost ones, and mourn them properly."

"Bloody funny definition of 'kindly'!" The inspector opined. "Think we'll ever find the nutters' body?"

"It's unlikely, Sir." Murdoch said. "The current is swift there, and would carry the body out a good distance into the lake."

"Where the fish will take care of it!" Brackenreid noted. "I just hope he doesn't poison them!"

**Epilogue**

It was not until almost a year later that Murdoch had occasion to be reminded of the Howlett family. He looked across his desk at the tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes, then glanced at the business card he had proffered.

"Mr Samuel Gibbs, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency." He said. "To what do I owe the honour?"

The man shrugged. "The Agency's been commissioned by the Bradley family of Chicago to look into the death of their daughter, Mrs Elizabeth Howlett, nee Bradley, and the disappearance of her son, James Howlett."

"Mrs Howlett is dead?" Murdoch was shocked, and crossed himself instinctively. "How did it happen. And when?"

Gibbs didn't answer, instead he flipped a photograph across the desk. "Know this man?"

It was a mortuary photograph, but recognisable.

"This is, or was, Thomas James Logan. A dockworker here in Toronto, but formerly an employee of the Howletts." Murdoch said. "Both he and they were of great assistance to us in an important case almost a year ago, now. He is also dead?"

Gibbs nodded. "About a month ago now, the cook-maid at the Howlett home came running into the local Northwest Mounted Police station. She wasn't making any sense, so they sent out a couple of men. There were three dead bodies in the hall of the house. Elizabeth Howlett, John Howlett and Thomas Logan.

"Mrs Howlett and Logan had both been shot with John Howlett's pistol. Howlett himself...well the Mounties thought he'd been mauled by some kind of animal, almost torn to pieces. When they went over the house, they found the boy gone. They went over the ranch and found that a young girl, Rose Jackson, who was close to James, had gone missing as well.

"The locals and Mounties searched the area and found another man lying half-dead in a ditch. His name is Victor Creed, a Blackfoot half-breed and well-known in the district as a thief and a bully. He can't have been as badly injured as he looked, because he gave a statement the next day.

"Creed admits he was poaching on the Howlett land. Says he heard voices raised and a woman screaming. He went up to the house and found the door open, then heard shots. He ran in and found Logan and Mrs Howlett dead, and John Howlett being sliced up by some guy with a sword. Creed claims he went to hep, but Howlett was already down and the guy turned on him. Says he just got away with his hide. Doesn't know what happened to the boy. He reckoned John Howlett must've shot his wife and Logan while trying to get the man with the sword."

"Do you think that's true?" Murdoch asked.

"No." Gibbs said. "Neither did the Mounties. John Howlett wasn't a man to shoot wild and kill his wife and friend by accident. The Mounties didn't have any photographs, but they made drawings, and I've seen 'em. They figure, and I agree, that Howlett shot his wife and Logan, both. One shot each, clean. By the looks of things, he meant to shoot Logan, but his wife put herself in front of the first shot.

"But that's where it gets weird. Howlett's pistol was by his body, empty. Two shots went into Mrs Howlett and Logan, but they found three more slugs in the walls, and one's clean gone. Also, they found Creed's hunting knife not far from where they'd found him, and there was blood on it. The wounds on John Howlett couldn't have been made by that knife, and Creed himself had wounds just like the ones on Howlett. Not sword wounds, either. Local doc said they looked more like claw-marks, only bigger than any animal they have round there could make.

"The Mounties were holding Creed, but he busted out one night, killed a couple of them and vanished. They're still after him. That's when the Bradleys called the Pinkertons in.

"I went up to Alberta, went over everything. Mrs Howlett had letters from Logan, going back fifteen or sixteen years. Nothing incriminating, just news and chit-chat about how the guy was doing here in Toronto. But I also found notes from Creed. Notes demanding money or her husband would find something out."

"Creed was blackmailing her?" Murdoch asked. "For how long?"

"Six-eight months, I figure. He didn't date the letters, but he moves around a lot and there was at least one note for every time he'd been in the area over that time. The last one, though, it asked for a whole lot of money, more than Mrs Howlett could take without her husband knowing, I guess.

"Couple of days before she died, Mrs Howlett drove herself into the town and sent a telegram to Toronto. The telegram was found in Thomas Logans' pocket. It asked him to come quick, didn't say why. So I came here and nosed about. Seems Logan packed up a valise and left in a hurry about the time he'd've got the telegram.

"I figure he turned up at the Howlett house just as Creed arrived to tell John Howlett whatever it was he had to tell him. I'd guess it was that young James Howlett is actually Logans' son, not Howletts'. John Howlett was known to be a jealous man, with a temper. He probably tried to shoot Logan, the wife got in the way of one shot, but Howlett took another and killed Logan.

"But something else happened after that, or Howlett would have shot Creed as well. There was someone, or some_thing_, else there that night. Something that cut John Howlett into rags and slashed Victor Creed bloody. Something that disappeared into the night carrying a forty-five slug and whatever damage Creed did with that knife. Something that scared a fifteen-year-old boy so badly that he took his best friend and ran for it.

"I don't suppose, Detective, that you have any idea what that might be? You're a man who solves unsolveable mysteries. How about this one?"

Murdoch shook his head. "This is beyond me, Mr Gibbs. I would conjecture a wild animal was responsible. That said, I have encountered Oriental assassins. and know something of the dacoits and thugs of India. They use unusual weapons and techniques. Though what motive any such person might have to kill an Alberta rancher I do not know.

"What I do know, and tell you in confidence, is that James Howlett is the natural son of Thomas Logan and Elizabeth Howlett, from a single encounter. There was no sustained affair, Logan told me this himself, under circumstances that make lying unlikely.

"I will also say that from what I know of young James Howlett, if he does not wish to be found, you are unlikely to find him."

After Gibbs had left, Murdoch pondered. He recalled a young man with preternaturally acute hearing, who might have overheard a conversation not meant for him. A stealthy young man who might have crept onto the stairs in time to see his mother, and the man he now knew to be his father, shot to death by the man he had thought was his father. He remembered a roar of Berserker rage and a slashing, leaping attack that had all but ended the career of a dangerous lunatic. Most of all, Murdoch remembered sharp, ivory-coloured claws in the moonlight.

He knew far more than he had, than he could, tell Gibbs. Secrets he would carry to his grave. But Murdoch was sure that the world would hear of James Howlett again.


End file.
